


Defying Probability

by clarissafrench



Category: Early Edition, Numb3rs
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-10-29 00:20:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10842525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarissafrench/pseuds/clarissafrench
Summary: What are the odds that an average guy in Chicago can save the life of an FBI agent in Los Angeles? With the paper, there's no easy answer.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to WriterJC for her beta read and asking me some good questions to make this a better story. This story is set somewhere in season two for Numb3rs and maybe between seasons two and three for Early Edition.

Pale sunlight streamed through the tall windows, illuminating a lump huddled underneath the covers of a queen-sized bed. As the radio on the bedside table switched on, a cat's meow echoed throughout the apartment.

"And it's a beautiful day in the Windy City, with temperatures going up to 55 degrees by lunchtime. Traffic is slow on the Dan Ryan…" the announcer's bright voice chirped before a hand emerged from under the covers to slap the snooze button.

Gary Hobson groaned as he swung his bare feet out from under the covers and slapped them down on the cold hardwood floor. Standing up in his white t-shirt and blue plaid boxers, he stumbled, yawning, to the door and pulled it open.

He bent down, blinking his eyes blearily, and grabbed the newspaper. Two things shook him awake. One was the familiar brush of fur against his leg as the orange tabby scurried past him into the apartment.

The second was the paper itself. That it was tomorrow's paper was no real surprise—he'd been getting the next day's paper in advance for well over a year now. No, the real eye opener was that, wrapped around his tabloid-sized Chicago Sun-Times, was the broadsheet front page of tomorrow's Los Angeles Times.

Now fully awake, he looked over at the cat. "And I suppose I get to guess about the special of the day here?"

The cat meowed in a lower tone in response.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." He set the paper down on the table. "This wouldn't be a hint that I'm getting a vacation, would it?"

The cat jumped onto the table, brushing the newspaper sheet so that the headline just below the fold was now visible.

Looking closer at the headline, Gary read, "FBI agent freezes to death in warehouse. A routine operation turned tragic yesterday morning for local FBI agents. Just after 8 a.m. agents raided a food storage warehouse near the Port of Los Angeles as part of a bust on a heroin-smuggling operation. Smugglers were able to incapacitate lead agent Don Eppes and lock him in one of the warehouse's freezers. The other agents regained the advantage and arrested the entire crew, but by the time they located Eppes in the freezer, it was too late."

"Investigators say it's clear that Eppes tried to force the main freezer door open with a crowbar but was unable to do so. It appears Eppes was unaware of the freezer's secondary door because warehouse employees violated the health code and stored an eight-foot tall stack of bags containing shrimp in front of it on the inside of the freezer. In a preliminary statement, the coroner's office said that if Eppes had been able to get out of the freezer just 30 minutes earlier, they would have been able to save him."

Gary looked down at the cat. "How am I supposed to save this guy? I can't get to Los Angeles in less than four hours."

The cat growled.

"I get it. I get it," said Gary, putting his hands up in defeat. "Always five impossible things before breakfast with you."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When Don Eppes' cell phone rang at 6 a.m., he was just pulling into the FBI parking garage. It was earlier than he'd like to be getting into the office, but Charlie's math indicated the gang would be moving its product today, and they'd only just got a fix on the warehouse last night.

"Eppes," he barked into the receiver.

"FBI switchboard. We have an anonymous tipster who has requested to speak to you about a food storage warehouse?"

"On what? Nobody outside the FBI knows about today's raid. Patch it through to me and see if you can trace it."

"Will do."

Seconds later, a nervous-sounding man's voice came on the line. "Is this Agent Eppes?"

"That's me. The operator said you have a tip for us?" Don asked.

"Well, yes- and no. Well, not a tip exactly as much as some advice, you see."

"Advice about a food storage warehouse?" Don crinkled his eyebrows skeptically.

"Well, you need to know that in the walk-in freezer, there's a second door, but it's hidden behind the shrimp. Your-your life depends on it."

"My life depends on shrimp? Is this a crank call?"

"No, no. Just remember. Behind the shrimp." The line clicked, and the nervous man was gone.

Don immediately dialed back the switchboard. "This is Eppes—were you able to trace the call?"

"I'm sorry, Agent Eppes, we were only able to narrow it down. The call came from a landline in Chicago, but it's a payphone."

"Chicago?" he said incredulously, as he climbed out of his SUV and headed for the building's entrance.

A few minutes later, he was in the conference room with his team, sketching out the plan for their assault on the warehouse. Colby and David were looking at some of their files to determine whether SWAT needed to be involved, while he was determining the best entry points to the warehouse with Megan.

"I got this weird call that came in from the tips hotline as I was getting in today," he said to Megan, as he circled another possible entry point on the blueprint.

"Oh yeah? Weird how?" She straightened up and put her hands on her hips.

Don reached up with his right hand and scratched the back of his head. "He mentioned a food storage warehouse and wanted to tell me about a door behind the shrimp."

"What?" Megan said, her eyebrows raised.

"Exactly. It was weird," Don said. "He didn't say this warehouse in particular—just that my life depended on remembering the shrimp."

"The shrimp? Well, he could be someone who just desperately wants to be involved in a case." Catching Don's look of disbelief, she continued, "Or he could just be a little nuts."

"Is 'a little nuts' one of those diagnoses they teach you in those Quantico profiler classes?" Don said with a grin.

"Uh-huh. Right up there with 'has a few screws loose' and 'just needs more cookies in his life,'" said Megan, her eyes twinkling.

"Oh and get this. The operator traced the call to a Chicago payphone."

"That's a little…odd. Why didn't he just call his 'tip' in to the local office?"

Don shook his head. "I don't know, but we've got bigger things to worry about today."

He turned back to the blueprint and resumed sketching out their plan of attack.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Before he even opened his eyes, Don felt the bone-chilling cold. His eyelashes felt like they were frozen together.

'Since when does it snow in Los Angeles?' he thought disjointedly.

A violent shiver ran through his body, waking him up more. After several tries at blinking, he opened his eyes. Various boxes and crates were stacked around him, and he sat up to look closer at the labels.

'I'm taking a nap with a crate of chicken thighs?' The thought bounced around his head, his brain still a little fuzzy.

He stood up shakily, his feet sliding slightly on the frost-covered floor, and tried to assess the situation. Patting his hip, he found his gun missing, but everything else seemed to be there. He cleared his throat and attempted a radio call.

"Megan, you there?" Nothing. "Colby? David?" There was no response, not even a crackle of static. "3695 to control, please respond." Still nothing.

'The walls of the room must be too thick,' he thought. Pulling out his cell phone, he looked at the screen, but it was blank. That didn't seem right. Blank? Even with no signal, there should still be something. It was the cold. It had to be. Why was it so cold? Don took a deep breath and tried to remember what had happened. They'd entered the warehouse, each taking a corner to clear. He'd poked his head into a breakroom area and seen no one, and as he'd turned back around… There'd been a fist. He hadn't even seen a face.

Gingerly, he touched his right cheekbone. 'Oh yeah, that's going to leave a mark. Dad would tell me to put some ice on it right away.' Shivering again, he snickered in spite of himself. Ice, well, he had his choice in here. They must have dragged him into one of the industrial freezers. He could see the door and ambled over to it. The wall was shiny steel, with a groove running around the outline of the door. That was it. No inner handle, no visible hinges to pry off. Glancing down, Don saw a crowbar lying next to another pallet… of rib-eyes? He almost snickered again at the irony of being trapped with his favorite meal.

Picking up the cold metal bar, he was glad for his tactical gloves. Even if they didn't provide much warmth, it was at least something. He angled the tip of the bar into the groove and pushed with all his strength. 'If Charlie was here, he'd tell me the right angle to push and how much force I'd need.' However much it was, it seemed like more than he had in him. Again and again he pushed until he had to sit for a moment to catch his breath. Looking around, he surveyed the freezer again. Chicken, steak, shrimp. He could have one heck of a party in here if there was only a grill.

'Hang on. Shrimp?' That guy, the nut from this morning. He'd said something about his life depending on shrimp. What was it? Don ran his hand through his hair, trying to remember. The guy had actually talked about a walk-in freezer. It was like he had known. But how could he? 'Wait. A second door. That's what he said. A second door behind the shrimp.'

Don jumped up with a new surge of energy. The bags of frozen shrimp stood in the corner in a stack eight feet high. 'Well, if nothing else, it'll warm me up,' he thought as he grabbed hold of the first one.

Fifteen minutes later, he'd made enough progress to see that there was indeed a door behind the shrimp, but it was going to take a lot more effort to get the area clear enough to open it. His throat ached from breathing in the cold air so heavily, and his fingers felt clumsy, frozen beneath his gloves. Still shivering, he hefted bag after bag away from the wall. He wasn't going to want ice cream for a year after this. Forget that ski trip he'd dreamed of—on his next day off, he was going to lie in the sun on the beach. 'Day off, right. That'll happen,' he thought, hefting another bag.

Now the door handle was uncovered, but as Don turned the handle, it was clear that the door opened inward. Just a three-foot stack of bags left. He could do this. His arms were sore, and he was long past feeling the cold in his hands. He was sweating from the effort, but each drip made him feel colder. He felt just about ready to collapse as he pushed the final few bags aside. Pulling the door handle toward him, he felt it click open, and warm air rushed in. Stumbling, he made his way out of the freezer and into the relative heat of the warehouse. The freezer door swung shut behind him. Sinking to the floor, he tried the radio again, but it was still out. 'Probably too cold still. They really should make these things to hold up under extreme conditions,' he thought.

Don knew he should find cover and make contact with his team, but the adrenaline that had kept him going in the freezer has faded, leaving the exhaustion and cold behind. He only closed his eyes for a moment—or at least it felt like a moment—when a hand grabbed his shoulder.

"Don! Don, are you with me?"

Blinking back his fuzzy thought, he opened his eyes to see Megan's face in front of his.

"Hey," he said with a slightly drunken kind of smile. "Didja get them?"

"Yeah, we got them. Are you OK?" She pressed a hand against his uninjured cheek. "Wow. You're like ice. What happened?"

"It was the shrimp," Don mumbled. "He was right about the shrimp."

He could feel the world tilting sideways and going dark and he continued, "The shrimp."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Megan sighed, lost in thought, as the ambulance doors slammed shut. Memories of the morning's gunshots echoed in her head.

The smugglers had been better prepared than they'd expected, and the situation had quickly become a cat and mouse shootout at one end of the warehouse. She'd been able to coordinate David to draw fire one way and Colby to get the drop on the shooters, but Don… She could hear herself making the radio calls: "Don, give me your location." "Don, what's your status? Are you injured?" There had been nothing, no response. Just silence. Her chest tightened at the memory.

Once they'd restrained the smugglers and made the call for back-up to help bring them in, Megan had begun searching Don's quadrant of the warehouse. The place was a maze of pallets and storage containers. It would take hours to search even this one section thoroughly.

She'd started methodically, going up and down rows of containers, but as she cleared each one, a feeling of panic started to well up inside her. Taking a deep breath, she'd summoned every bit of FBI professionalism she had and continued. It had been at least 30 minutes when she'd heard a thud, like something had fallen. Abandoning her search grid, she hurried toward the sound.

And that's how she'd found him, slumped against the door of an industrial freezer, cold as ice. He'd only woken up enough to say a few nonsensical things before passing out again. She looked down at him now in the ambulance, bundled up and breathing deeply. He looked almost peaceful, only shivering occasionally.

She leaned back against the wall of the ambulance, not letting go of his hand. 'Any one you walk away from,' she told herself. 'It's OK now.'

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When he opened his eyes again, he was moving—well, everything was. Don stared at the ceiling for a moment, half awake, then snapped back into awareness once he realized he was in an ambulance. Someone had wrapped him in a blanket and stuck the back of his left hand with an IV. His eyes tracked the space around him rapidly, landing on two people—a paramedic to his left, and Megan on his right, holding his hand.

"What happened?" he said, groaning and looking at Megan.

"Why don't you tell me?" Megan said with a smile. "When I found you, you just kept talking about shrimp."

"Huh?" he said. "I was clearing my section of the warehouse when someone knocked me out. I woke up in the freezer. No idea how long I was there, but I couldn't get the main door open from the inside."

"You were cold when I found you," Megan said, "but you must have found your way out, because I didn't find you inside a freezer."

Don's eyes widened with realization, and he tried to sit up, but the straps keeping him secured on the gurney prevented that. Leaning back down, he turned his head toward Megan. "That guy, the crank from this morning. He was right about the shrimp!"

"The shrimp? What did he say exactly?"

"He said there was a door behind the shrimp, that I had to know, because it would save my life."

"I'm still not following you," Megan said, shaking her head.

Don took a deep breath. "That freezer was full of all kinds of frozen meats—chicken, steak, you name it. But there was only one place where there was a pile of bags containing frozen shrimp. It was a really tall stack, but I didn't have any other options, so I started moving them, and there was a secondary door behind them. I never would have seen it." He shook his head. "What I can't figure out is how the guy knew—how he knew we'd be at the warehouse today, how he knew I'd get locked in that freezer and how he knew just what was stacked in front of the second door."

Megan bit her bottom lip as she thought. "Yeah, that's one too many coincidences. Can we track him?"

The ambulance was slowing down as they pulled into the hospital parking lot.

Don shook his head. "All they could tell me was that the call came from a payphone in Chicago. Unless he calls again, we'll probably never know."

"Well at least he did. You can live with the nickname 'Popsicle' instead of actually being one," she said with a grin.

He glared back at her. "You wouldn't."

"Maybe not, but I think Colby and David might."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy this installment—I did the best I could with the science. Thanks, as always, to WriterJC for the great beta-read.

As he lay in bed under the quilt, Gary grumbled to himself. It wasn't 6 a.m. yet, and he'd be damned if he'd get out of bed earlier just because he happened to be awake. He refused to look at the digital clock next to the bed—knowing how much time he had to sleep would just start a countdown in his brain, and he'd never get back to sleep.

Turning over in the bed, Gary tried to settle back down and rest, but his brain wouldn't relax. Last week's adventure with the different paper—something about it felt unsettling. It had come out of nowhere, and somehow, knowing the paper, Gary didn't think it was over yet. Sure, the story had changed after he made the phone call, but there was just something niggling at him.

He pulled the covers over his head just as the radio flicked on. Peering out from the blankets, he winced at the sound of the cat meowing outside his door. He sank back against the pillow for a moment, then sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Running his hand through his hair, he shuffled to the door.

Once, twice, three times, even, he blinked blearily down at the floor as the cat rushed past him into the apartment. The Los Angeles Times again. Was it going to haunt him every week?

"This your idea of a joke?" he called after the cat.

Meowing low, the cat just stared at him.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. It's all for a reason, right? That reason better not be to give me a heart attack."

He sat down at the table and began to page through the paper. As before, it was only the front page of the Times that was wrapped around his normal Sun-Times, but it was… boring. Straight-up boring.

Looking over at the cat, he said, "What, you don't like the resolutions from the city council meeting? Why do I even have this?"

Glancing back down, he saw a local story on one of the Sun-Times pages that caught his eye.

_"Food cart explodes in Near West Side neighborhood, killing vendor. A small but fiery explosion erupted near the 1500 block of Madison Street yesterday morning at 10:04 a.m. The blast, which killed a local churro vendor, originated from his churro cart. Investigators say that the cart had recently been repaired but that an electrical short in the cart's heating mechanism ignited the deep fryer's oil. Firefighters responded quickly, keeping the blaze confined to the sidewalk area. A preliminary coroner's report indicated that vendor Jorge Morales died immediately from trauma sustained when pieces of the cart hit him during the explosion."_

Quickly flipping through the rest of the paper, Gary located two other stories he could change that morning before the cart explosion, then headed over to the closet to get dressed.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Pausing for a moment to catch his breath, Gary looked ahead to the intersection, then down at his watch. Two minutes. He started walking again, eyes peeled for any food vendors. Two women wheeling strollers jogged past, and Gary felt his chest tighten. The magical power to tell people to clear out would be handy about now, but telling people there was about to be an explosion or a bomb or anything never seemed to work. Or it worked enough to get himself arrested.

As the women turned the corner, Gary breathed easier. Two fewer casualties to worry about, at least. Then, a flash or sunlight hitting metal caught his eye. Turning, he saw the churro cart. He looked at his watch again—30 seconds. Stepping closer, Gary could feel the seconds ticking down in his head. 20, then 15, and now 10. The sidewalk had cleared, and it was just the cart vendor on the corner. Running toward the cart, he slipped in a puddle and careened to his target out of control. His momentum took Gary and the vendor to the ground and propelled the cart toward the street.

"My cart!" yelled the vendor. He started to get up to run after it just as it hit a fire hydrant and exploded, shaking the quiet street. The small plume of flame rose, then fell quickly and the gush of water from the fire hydrant smothered it. Unfortunately, the water didn't stop there but spilled out onto the street, quickly flooding it.

Stumbling to his feet, Gary stared at the rapidly-expanding mess. As he turned to look down the street, he saw a car approaching fast. Running down the block to get in front of the flood, Gary waved his arms to warn the car, but he just wasn't fast enough. The car skidded through the water and crashed into a pole. Jogging faster, Gary reached the car in seconds.

He tapped on the driver's window. "Are you okay?"

The man inside shook his head. "I think my leg is broken," he hissed through gritted teeth.

"What's your name?"

"John Tipton."

"Don't worry, John, I'll get you an ambulance," said Gary. He started to run back down the block to find a payphone, but the approach of sirens and flashing lights told him it was time to slip away—the police would get the man the help he needed.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Gary finally caught his breath as he sat on a bus bench, hands clasped around a warm cup of coffee. Setting the paper down beside him, he leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment. It seemed like just a few seconds had gone by when he felt a warm weight plop suddenly against his leg with a familiar meow.

"Just a coffee break, cat. Come on." He opened his eyes to see that the pages of the paper were all askew.

Leaning over to stack them back together, he froze as he saw that the L.A. Times headline had changed.

_"Leaky plumbing turns explosive, injuring 8. A blast rocked the California Institute of Science campus yesterday morning at 9:15 when a burst pipe poured water through the ceiling paneling into a third-floor chemistry lab. When the water mixed with a student's experiment on a lab table, the result was explosive, causing a chain reaction that ignited several other chemicals in the lab. Several students working in the lab sustained serious injuries, while others escaped with cuts from flying glass shards. Two professors who happened to be in the lab received the most serious injuries. One has been identified as Lawrence Fleinhardt, but the police had not released any other names at press time. Sources at the university say the pipe had been scheduled for maintenance earlier in the morning, but the employee who was supposed to do it was called away on a family emergency."_

He looked back at the cat. "Where did this come from?"

The cat meowed in a lower tone.

Putting his coffee down on the bench, Gary ran his fingers through his hair. "One explosion's not enough for today?"

Spying a pay phone a few feet away, he stood up. Before walking away, he looked back at the cat. "I'll do my best, cat, but there's only so much I can do about California from here."

The cat jumped down, rubbed against his leg and purred. Sighing deeply, Gary walked over to the phone and dialed zero.

"Information? Can I get the number for the California Institute of Technology?"

As he waited, Gary leaned against the side of the phone booth, tapping his foot.

"I'm connecting you now, sir," chirped the operator.

There was a soft click, then a ring. "California Institute of Technology. How may I direct your call?"

"Uh, yeah. Can you connect me to Professor-" He checked the paper again. "Lawrence Fleinhardt?"

"One moment, please."

As Gary waited, he checked his watch. Not much time left. "One of these days, I'll get a heart attack from this thing."

There was another click from the phone. "Physics department," said a bored voice on the other end.

"I'm looking for Professor Fleinhardt—can you give me his number?"

There was a pause at the other end. "Ooh, that's going to be tough. He doesn't have a phone. Can you just come to his office hours?"

Gary rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb. "What do you mean, no phone? I have a… a very urgent matter I have to talk with him about right away."

"I'm sorry sir." The voice paused again. "Have you tried Professor Eppes?"

"Eppes?" An icy feeling started to form in his stomach.

"Yeah, Charlie Eppes. They're good friends, and half the time you see one on campus, you see the other."

"Uh, no. No, I haven't. Can you give me his cell phone number?"

"Sure. It's (310) 555-3141."

"Thanks."

Gary hung up the phone with a heavy clunk and looked down at the cat, perched atop a disused phonebook on the floor of the booth. "Are you kidding me? Eppes again? What is it with this family?"

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Larry, come on. It's a great way to illustrate the principles of the static friction coefficient." Charlie smiled as he climbed the sunny steps of the chemistry building.

"Charles, we're talking about airborne vegetation," Larry said, wincing slightly.

Charlie reached out and patted him on the shoulder. "Yeah, but it's white food if you peel it. That's gotta give it some points, right?"

"I suppose it would capture the attention of the class rather quickly," Larry said.

Charlie pulled the door open. "I just happen to know that one of the chemistry grad students upstairs has a potato launcher we can borrow for, uh, 'research'."

Larry look bewildered for a moment, then chuckled. "You knew. You already knew you'd be able to convince me of its merits—that's why we're here?"

Shrugging, Charlie said, "Guilty. But you'll thank—" He stopped as his cell phone rang. Glancing down at the screen, he saw a number he didn't recognize. "Yeah, this is Charlie Eppes," he said into the phone.

A man's halting voice replied, "Uh, hello professor. This is a little strange, I know, but is Professor Lawrence Fleinhardt with you? The, uh, secretary at the physics department said he might be there."

Glancing over at Larry, Charlie replied, "Yeah. Did you need to talk with him?"

"If you don't mind, I really do."

With a raised eyebrow, Charlie held out the phone to Larry. "It's for you."

"For me?" Larry took the phone from Charlie. "Hello?"

"Professor Fleinhardt?" The man's tone was urgent. "I need to warn you."

"Warn me? Of what?" Larry looked to Charlie with a puzzled frown.

"There's going to be a chemical explosion in the third-floor lab. You have to get everyone out of there now."

"If you're already present in the lab, I fail to see how my presence will help—"

"That's the thing. I—I'm not in the lab. You have to go warn them, or a lot of people are going to get hurt."

"Given your lack of physical proximity to the experiments in the lab, it's statistically unlikely that you could predict an explosion is imminent—how do profess to know this?" Larry replied.

Charlie was staring. "An explosion? Where?" he mouthed silently to Larry.

"Look, I can't tell you that, but you have to evacuate that building," the man pleaded.

"Pranks are all well and good, but—"

"This isn't a prank, I promise. Think of it this way: If I'm wrong, maybe you'll look a little silly, but if I'm right, you can save lives. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain here. Just trust me, please."

"Well, the universe does have infinite possibilities, so it is possible, if improbable…"

"We're running out of time. You have to do this now."

"I—Okay." Larry nodded. "I'll do it, but I don't fully understand…" He trailed off. Charlie pulled at his elbow.

"Larry, what was that about an explosion?"

"The man on the phone. He said there's going to be an explosion in the third-floor chemistry lab."

"When?"

"He didn't specify, but it sounded imminent."

Rushing to the wall, Charlie pulled the fire alarm. "Larry, check all the rooms on this hallway. I'll check the ones upstairs. Let's get everyone out."

Within minutes students and professors were streaming out into the quad. Charlie followed the last group out the door. Spotting Larry in the crowd, he ran over to him.

"I think that's everyone," Charlie said, slightly breathless.

"Although I concede that it's possible someone not in the lab could know of a dangerous situation, are we sure this isn't a hoax of some kind?" Larry asked.

Charlie shook his head. "Honestly, Larry, I really don't know. What exactly did he say to you? Do you even know who called?"

"He made the argument that I had much more to gain by evacuating the building, but—"

Just then, there was a loud rumble from the building, followed by a bright flash of flame. Several windows shattered, spraying glass out the side of the building. Charlie, Larry, and most of the people around them shielded their faces, and when they brought their arms down, they could see smoke pouring out from the windows on the third floor.

"I guess he was right," Charlie said, slightly dazed.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Fire trucks and police cars filled the area around the chemistry building as Don and Megan pulled up in Don's SUV. As she stepped out of the car, Megan quickly spotted Larry in the crowd and ran over to him, flashing her badge at the police barrier.

"Larry! Are you all right?"

"I appear to be intact," Larry said, holding up his hands to show her. "Such an odd thing. The infinite possibilities of the cosmos allow for all kinds of scenarios one would never dream up ordinarily."

"What happened? All I got from dispatch is that someone pulled the fire alarm before the explosion."

"I believe trying to fathom that is rather like trying to explain the events of Back to the Future without realizing a time machine is involved," Larry mused.

"Larry, I'm going to need a little more than that," she said with a small smile.

"Well, simply put, a piece of this puzzle is missing."

Don and Charlie walked over and joined them. "What's missing?" asked Don.

"An element of our mystery explosion, apparently," said Megan.

"Which part? The phone call?" asked Charlie.

"Wait, what phone call?" Don asked, holding a hand up.

Turning to Don and Megan, Charlie began, "So Larry and I were stopping by the chemistry lab to pick up a few things for a demonstration—one we'd just decided to do—when my cell phone rang, and the man on the other end asked for Larry."

"That's weird," said Don.

"Well, not as weird as you might think," said Charlie, shrugging. "Most people in the math and physics departments know we spend a lot of time together, and since Larry refuses to get a cell phone, sometimes they call me looking for him. The weird part was what he said to Larry."

"Who was it?" Megan asked.

Larry shook his head. "I don't know. He didn't give a name. But he seemed to know, almost prophetically, that the third-floor chem lab was going to explode rather imminently."

"What did he sound like?" Don asked.

"Pretty generic accent. Younger man, probably. And he seemed kind of nervous, but that could just be because he was warning us about an explosion," Charlie said. "I don't know how he knew we'd be right here at the chemistry building. If we'd have been across campus we wouldn't have had time to get here and get everyone out, and we might not have been able to get anyone on the phone in time either."

Don froze, then looked back at Charlie. "He called your phone? I'll see if I can get the tech department at the FBI to trace the number."

He stepped away and started dialing his cell phone.

Charlie looked at Megan. "What's up with Don? Does he know something we don't?"

Megan bit her lip as she watched Don making his call. "I'm not positive, but I think he suspects this call is tied to one he got working that case last week. Looks like two anonymous calls from nervous guys averting disaster might be sending just a few chills down his spine, anyway."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Don tapped his hand on the desk. Another pay phone, another dead end. Both calls came from Chicago, but that's as much as he could prove. It wasn't the same pay phone—wasn't even the same part of town, and without a recording, there was no way to prove it was the same guy.

At least the Chicago field office was willing to go dust the phone booth for prints, but even then, the weather in Chicago was chilly this week, and there's a good chance whoever picked up the phone was wearing gloves. Plus, it was a public space. Still, it was better to look—you never know what you might find.

Picking up the thick report from his desk, he leafed through it for what seemed like the tenth time. The leak was just in the right place above the lab desk for the whole chain of events to start, and the pipe itself showed no signs of tampering—it just burst through a rusted patch that was already leaking slightly. Building maintenance said it was even scheduled to be checked earlier that morning, but the repairman—Earl Tipton—had left in a rush to take emergency family leave. He hadn't even seen his day's schedule yet and wouldn't have known he was working on the pipe.

Don rubbed his eyes as he propped his feet on his desk. The bomb investigators said the explosion would have been nearly instantaneous when the water hit the lab experiment—there would have been no time for a warning. The student whose experiment it was that set things off hadn't reserved space in the lab or anything—he'd just suddenly had some free time to work on his experiment and took whatever space was free.

It was just like the freezer, all of it. All of these things that happened—no one could have known they would—but someone had known and had known in advance by enough time to warn them. But who could have known? Why was the nervous man keeping himself anonymous? If it was tied to the FBI before, why would he suddenly have knowledge of this incident at Cal-Sci? And from Chicago? That was almost the most baffling part.

Don shook his head and checked his cell phone screen. It was late, and it didn't look like any answers were coming. Still there was this feeling in his stomach, a mixture of curiosity and dread, wondering when another call might come and what the man would warn about next.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, to WriterJC for catching my mistakes. Hope you all enjoy this latest installment.

Swirling the dregs of his Americano in the bottom of his mug, Chuck glanced up at the coffee shop counter again, then at the door. He leaned back in his chair and stretched as his thoughts turned back to his morning wake-up call.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The ringing woke him from a deep sleep, and he fumbled for the phone in the dark.

"This had better be about a hot date you have for me or a tip that my hotel's on fire and I should get out now," he grumbled into the receiver.

"What would you say if I told you that women are involved, but maybe not in the dating sense?"

He rubbed his eyes with one hand. "Gary, do you have any idea what time it is?"

There was a pause. "Ah, yeah. Forgot about the time difference."

"Gar, give me one good reason I shouldn't just throw this phone across the room right now."

"You'd lose your rollover minutes if you damaged it? Look, Chuck, I need your help."

He felt the early morning bleariness fall away, and he sat up in bed. "What is it? Are you OK?"

"I'm fine. It's the paper."

Dropping his head back onto his free hand, he groaned. "Gary, I am not flying back to Chicago to pull someone out of a swimming pool—"

Gary rushed to interrupt. "No, Chuck, I need you right there in Los Angeles. There's going to be an accident, and I need you to keep people from getting hurt. The paper says there's an FBI agent and a pediatric neurosurgeon who die and a classical pianist who's hurt badly enough that she'll never be able to play again."

"Why do I feel like this is the beginning of a bad joke? An FBI agent, a doctor and a musician all walk into a bar…"

"It's not a bar. It's a coffee shop."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The early morning phone call echoed through his head as Chuck people-watched from a table far from the counter.

_"A car's gonna crash through the window of Valley Fresh Coffee at 6:22 tonight. The FBI agent, she's on her way home from a krav maga class, so she'll be in workout gear. The doctor, well I don't know what she'll be wearing, but she'll be standing right by the agent."_

_"Don't tell me the musician will have her piano with her."_

_"No, she's the barista. Starving artist, you know?"_

He checked his watch. 6:15. Almost showtime.

_"The car. It's gonna crash through right by the register. If you can get them to the other side of the store, you should be fine."_

_"Should be?"_

The entrance bell jingled at the door, and Chuck looked up. A slender brunette in yoga pants and a t-shirt, with a sweatshirt wrapped around her waist was entering the café. Chuck almost whistled in appreciation but stopped himself when he remembered the magic words: krav maga.

The door jingled again, and a woman with a blond ponytail and scrubs stepped through the door. As she approached the counter to wait behind the brunette, Chuck stood to make his move.

Walking toward the condiment bar at the other end of the counter with his mug, he threw himself backward onto the floor, right by the wall.

"Ow!" he yelled. "I think I'm hurt. Ah, can someone help me?"

The woman in the scrubs turned and walked over, but the brunette stayed by the register. Chuck moaned louder, and she turned to look at him as well.

"I think I sprained my ankle. Can you two help me get to the chair?"

The brunette headed his way, and the doctor was already kneeling beside him, offering a shoulder. Chuck shifted his gaze to the barista, who was still behind the counter.

"Hey, you," he said. "Would you mind grabbing me some ice from your machine back there? Ow. It really hurts."

Chuck grimaced dramatically.

The girl behind the counter tilted her head sympathetically and said, "Sure."

She walked across to the ice dispenser and started to pour some ice cube onto an unfolded paper towel. Just as she began to wrap up the end, there was a loud crash. A car smashed through the store's glass front, slowing as it went and landing on top of the register. Chuck and the two women next to him fell to the ground as the loud noise and reverberations startled them. Glass shards flew through the air, a few of them slicing the outside of Chuck's arm. He hissed from the pain, but the sound was lost in the larger cacophony. Looking to his left and right, he saw the doctor and the brunette in workout gear cringing in a similar way but both most definitely alive.

"The barista," he gasped to the doctor. "Please, can you check on her?"

He watched as the doctor stepped carefully over chunks of the smashed wall and scattered pieces of glass. She reached the counter by the ice dispenser and looked behind it. Turning back to Chuck, she smiled.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Two police cars and an ambulance were already on the scene, lights still flashing, as Don pulled up to the café. Stepping out of his SUV, he looked around at the damage. Glass was everywhere, both inside and outside the building. Some of the window frames hung there uselessly, now just twisted pieces of metal. The front of the beat-up maroon sedan still balanced precariously on top of the counter. Don could see pieces of the smashed cash register spread down the remains of the counter. Tables and chairs lay where the impact had thrown them.

He took a deep breath as he shook his head at the mess. Still scanning the wreckage, he spotted Megan talking with a uniformed police officer, a swath of small white bandages spread across one arm. As he approached her, he saw a couple of butterfly bandages dotting her face.

"Megan, are you OK?"

Turning toward him, she flashed a small, tight smile. "Yeah, just shaken up. I got a few scratches, but nothing serious. It could have been a lot worse."

"Was anyone else hurt?"

"We were incredibly lucky. You wouldn't believe the timing. I came in to grab a latte after my workout, and I'm standing at the counter when this guy slips and falls on the other side of the café. This other customer and I—I think she's a doctor—we went over to help him up and get him to a chair. Then he calls over to the barista to ask for some ice. I swear if I didn't know better…"

"What?" Don looked at her quizzically.

"Well, it's the weirdest thing, that car crashed literally seconds after she walked over to the ice machine. If it had been one minute earlier, or that guy hadn't slipped, all three of us would have been at the register when that car hit. You have to admit, the timing is pretty incredible."

"Huh," Don said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "You don't think this guy is our mystery phone psychic, do you?"

Megan shook her head. "The personality's all wrong. You said your guy, he was nervous, almost shy. This guy—he was checking me out before the crash. I could almost feel his once-over glance, but he was more of a loud, whining guy than the shy and nervous guy you described. Still, when we went over to help, and the barista didn't, I'd swear there was something in his eyes, like he knew he needed to get her over to us. But he didn't actually say, 'Hey, get over here. A car's about to flatten you.'"

Don lowered his voice. "And there's no way he arranged this accident, you think?"

"Not unless he's got divine powers," Megan said. "The driver had a heart attack as she was coming down the street and lost control of the car. He couldn't have known that would happen."

Don looked over at the man again. "I'm going to talk with him, just to see."

"Just don't accuse him of being your phone psychic without proof, OK?" Megan said, her eyes twinkling.

Carefully stepping over pieces of the wrecked wall and shards of broken glass, Don made his way toward the slight man sitting at the back of the ambulance. A few cuts dotted the man's cheek and arm. Overall, he didn't look too bad for someone nearly run over by an out-of-control car, Don thought.

Reaching the ambulance, Don stopped and extended his hand. "Don Eppes, FBI."

The man looked at him with raised eyebrows. "FBI? You guys investigate car crashes now?"

Don shook his head. "Just checking it out, since it involved one of my agents," he said, gesturing to Megan. "What's your name?"

"I'm Chuck, Chuck Fishman. But I'm not sure what I can tell you. One minute we're in a perfectly nice coffee shop, and the next, it's all glass confetti and carnage."

His speech carried a subtle edge of a New York accent—definitely different from the mystery phone man. Don looked at him critically. "Not too much carnage here, and I hear that's because of you."

Chuck grinned. "Well, I can take credit for saving lives if you want. Just don't tell any ladies that the hero of the hour only saved people because he fell on his ass and needed help getting up."

Nodding, Don said, "I think I can manage that. Are you OK from that fall earlier?"

"It's a funny thing," said Chuck with a wry smile, "but almost getting run over by a car really puts a tweaked ankle in perspective."

Don couldn't help a small chuckle. "Yeah, well, I can see that. Glad you're not hurt worse. You from around here? I might need to follow up later."

Shaking his head, Chuck said, "Nah, I'm just having an extended vacation. Needed some sun and thought I might try my hand at Hollywood. I'll be around for a few weeks at least, a few months maybe. I already gave the cops all my information."

"Well, thanks for falling, I guess. It saved my agent's life." Don walked away, lost in thought.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Don was still thinking about the crash the next day, as he sat at his desk filing reports on a bust from the previous week. A tapping sound from the cubicle divider snapped him out of his reverie. Megan stood there, waving a still-bandaged arm at him. "Don, you with me?"

Shaking off his daydream, Don said, "Yeah. What's up?"

"You still thinking about the crash?" she asked.

"Well yeah, aren't you?"

"It's not every day you nearly get flattened for trying to buy a latte. But Don, it has to be a random accident. Everything I've seen goes to that point." She looked at him suspiciously. "Have you been checking up on Mr. Convenient Sprained Ankle?"

Don met her gaze. "Can't help it. Naturally suspicious. But that does tend to help in our line of work. I ran credit cards and airline logs for Chuck Fishman. The guy is from Chicago, just like our mystery caller, but according to all the records, he was here in California both times we got a call. Still, there is that Chicago connection."

Megan squinted skeptically. "I don't know, Don, that's pretty thin."

He sighed and leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms back behind his head. "I know, and I agree. It is thin. But this whole thing— it's driving me nuts. There's just something about it."

"Come on, finish your report, and we can grab some coffee—without any crashes this time," Megan said.

"I wonder if Charlie can give me odds on whether this is all connected," Don said as he turned back to his paperwork.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to WriterJC for the beta read and to Daughter_Of_Jove for her suggestion of how to put Alan in peril.

Gary took several quick, shallow breaths as he looked at the sparking mess in front of him, glowing in the dark of the evening. Pulling out the paper, he saw the headline from the morning had changed from "Passenger train derails in South Side, 16 dead" to "Out of control car hits signal station, massive train schedule disruptions expected".

He looked up to see the stunned driver stumble from the wreck and sit down on a nearby curb. In the distance, he could hear a siren wailing, and it was coming closer. Tucking the paper into the back pocket on his jeans, Gary took a last look at the wreck, then hustled down the block to disappear before the authorities arrived.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"The thing is," Don said as he chewed a piece of pot roast, "I'm sure it's the same guy who's been calling each time, but I have nothing to track him and no way to prove it."

Across the table, Charlie squinted, lost in thought.

"But Donnie, how can you be so sure? This last incident with Megan—she didn't get a call from that man, did she?"

Don shook his head and pounded the table lightly with his fist. "I don't know, Dad, it just feels like him. Miraculous save out of nowhere? No good explanation as to why we didn't end up with three casualties?"

"But no call," said Alan.

"No call."

Alan looked over at Charlie. "What do you think? Do you have some sort of probability worked out for this thing?"

Absently rubbing his fingers together, Charlie shook his head. "Honestly, there are a lot of variables here. I can chart the commonalities among all three suspected incidents, but the data we have—I doubt we'll get a good result without more data points."

Don raised his eyebrows. "Oh yeah? I mean, I'm not going to root for another near-disaster, but if Psychic Telephone Man makes sure no one gets hurt, I'll cross my fingers for another data point, just for you, Charlie."

"What do you know about this guy so far?" asked Alan.

"Both phone calls traced back to Chicago, both tips came in before anything had actually happened and all of them probably would have resulted in at least one death without our cryptic psychic friend," Don said.

"Can't you just call him back?" asked Alan.

Don shook his head. "It's not that simple, Dad. He calls from pay phones, different ones each time. I got the Chicago office to fingerprint them, but it's a good bet he's wearing gloves."

"Donnie, have you considered why he's doing this? How do you know he isn't setting these things up so he can be the hero?"

"That's the thing, Dad," said Charlie. "The lab explosion—there's no way anyone set that up. It was a really strange confluence of factors but virtually impossible to set up to happen at a specific time."

Don jumped in. "And the deal with me and the warehouse—the details of that raid were classified. No one knew, and only someone who'd been in that exact freezer would have known to describe it to me the way he did."

"And the coffee shop?"

"That's the thing. No one could have set it up just how it happened. The driver had a heart attack, and it looks like it was natural—no drugs, just clogged arteries and bad timing. And the guy Megan was helping, who could have predicted a twisted ankle?" Don said, frowning.

"You're sure this guy wasn't your psychic?"

Don drummed on the tabletop with his fingers. "I wanted to think so, but we checked him out. He couldn't have made the calls from the pay phones, and he didn't sound like the guy I talked to."

He reached up and ran his fingers through his short hair. "He hasn't actually committed a crime, so it's not even an official case at this point. There's only so many resources I can spend on finding this guy. What do you think, Dad?"

"Just be patient. And be glad he seems to be on your side. Look, we've all got problems, but this doesn't seem to be too bad." Alan sighed. "It's been a rough week on my project in Silver Lake."

Reaching to scoop more potatoes onto his plate, Charlie paused. "What's going on?"

"It's that supplier for the l-beams. We're trying to get the initial structures up by the end of the week, but there's a train tie-up in the Midwest that's snagged the whole supply chain. To stay on schedule, we had to scramble to find a local supplier. I'm going out tomorrow to check on their progress. If we overrun on the initial construction, the budget's just going to go through the roof at each step."

"Sorry, Dad," said Charlie. "I'm sure you'll get back on track."

Alan leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. "I can only hope."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Gary propped his elbows on the bar, fingers rubbing the space between his eyebrows. Today was a mess. He'd already been covered head to toe in ladies' perfume after an unfortunate attempt to prevent a robbery at a department store, and as soon as he got back and showered, he found the bar was shorthanded and needed his help to prep before the lunch rush.

With about two minutes to catch his breath, he pulled the paper out of his pocket. Flipping through it, he stopped short. A single additional page was folded up inside the classified section—and it wasn't from the Sun-Times.

Unfurling it, Gary read, " _Just after 9 a.m. yesterday, disaster struck a construction site in Silver Lake when a key support beam failed as site planners were conducting an inspection. The structure collapsed, trapping two workers in one section and critically injuring the site's consulting engineer. Firefighters mounted a three-hour rescue effort. The workers were treated and released with minor injuries, but the engineer, Alan Eppes of Fisher & Eppes Consulting, remains in critical condition at Mercy Hospital._"

"You gotta be kidding me. Again? What is it with this family? Don't they know how to stay out of trouble?" Gary grumbled.

One of the waitresses pushed by him with a heavily-laden tray of silverware and glasses to set the tables, and he could hear the line cook shouting his name from the back. A few regulars were already leaning up against the windows outside, waiting for the bar to open for business. Reaching behind the bar, Gary grabbed a phone.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Alan was almost at the job site when his cell phone rang. He eased his aging Volvo to the side of the road, parked at the curb, then picked up the phone.

"Stan, I'm almost there—" he started

"This, uh, isn't Stan," stammered a man's voice.

"Sorry about that. Are you calling for Fisher & Eppes Consulting?"

"Um, in a way, yes. You know that construction job you're doing in Silver Lake?"

Alan frowned. "Yes?"

"You have to evacuate it right now." The man's voice had taken on an urgent tone.

"Is this some sort of prank?" Alan asked.

"No, no joke here, I promise. Those support beams you're using, they won't hold. The whole thing's going to crash any time now."

"Now look, you've had your fun, but I won't tolerate people threatening the workers at my site."

The man on the end made a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl. "Look, I promise, it's not a threat. It's a warning. It's dangerous. I don't want anyone to get hurt—"

Alan's eyes opened wide, and he interrupted the man. "It's you, isn't it? You're the one who's been warning off my sons from things all over town."

Dead silence answered Alan.

"C'mon, I'm right, aren't I? Who are you? Why are you doing this?"

He could hear the man draw a deep breath. "Just be careful. Get everyone out. Buy them lunch or something. Just please, get everyone to safety."

The line clicked, and the man was gone. Alan leaned back in the driver's seat. He'd been right, hadn't he? With Don, with Charlie? Turning the key to restart his engine, he felt resolved- it was worth it to follow the warning.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"You're kidding," said Don, sitting up straight in his chair. "Yeah, Dad, I'll check it out, thanks."

He stood up and looked over the cubicle wall to Megan.

"Got a new lead on our mystery man."

Megan raised her eyebrows. "Really? What's he done this time?"

"You won't believe it, but he called my father and warned him of a collapse at the construction site he was about to go inspect."

"That thing in Silver Lake? I heard it on the news when I was coming back from lunch. They said no one was hurt."

Don walked over and sat on the edge of Megan's desk. "Yeah, but that's only because Dad told all the workers he was taking them out for a coffee break. Ten minutes later, the whole thing crashed down."

"And Mystery Man saves the day again. Are you sure you want to track him down? So far, he hasn't done anything wrong, exactly, and he sure seems to like you."

"Right now he does. But what if he's involved somehow?"

Megan shook her head. "You know, the profile's all wrong for someone who sets up accidents to be the hero. This guy doesn't seem to want any credit or accolades of any kind."

"Look, I know I can't arrest him for anything. But it's my family, and if this guy is bad news, I need to know."

Walking back to his desk, Don picked up the phone and dialed. "Hey, Matt. I need to know any numbers that called (310) 555-1045 this morning, OK? Yeah, no warrant needed. We have permission from the account holder. Thanks."

A few minutes later, his computer beeped. Opening the email, Don saw one number. He picked up the phone and dialed.

It rang twice, then a woman's voice answered, "McGinty's. This is Marissa, how can I help you?"

Don cleared his throat. "This is Special Agent Don Eppes of the FBI. I'm tracking down some leads on a case, and I need to know who might have used this phone this morning."

"This morning? The bar doesn't open until noon."

Don persisted. "Is there anyone who could have been using the phone today?"

"Well sure. Any of our staff, and we occasionally let our regulars make a call."

"Can you describe anyone you saw near the phone today?"

"I really can't. We've been very busy, and even if we weren't, well, there's a lot of things I can do but seeing isn't one of them. Sorry I can't help."

"Thanks anyway. I appreciate your help." Don hung up the phone, then turned to look at the file. All three calls came from Chicago. This was a break in the pattern, though—not a pay phone. And, apparently, a phone with restricted access in the morning. It was looking better and better.

Looking over to the other nearby cubicles, Don said, "Hey Colby, David. I need you to run down any employees and anyone associated regularly with McGinty's bar in Chicago, just north of the Loop."

Colby looked over at him. "Are we tracking down the Frozen Shrimp Phantom?"

David smiled and joined in, "Yeah, Don, we could really hurt his reputation in the superhero community if we outed his secret identity."

Don held up his hands. "Yeah, yeah. Joke all you want. I still want those names."

Don's phone rang, and he got involved in a long discussion with the district attorney about various pieces of evidence for a trial the following week. When he finally hung up the phone, David walked over to him.

"Here are all the names we found. I sent them over to the Chicago field office too—any of them look familiar?"

Don skimmed the list and stopped.

"Yeah, one of them is," he said.


End file.
